The Red Card

The Red Card

          The bishop walked to the lectern, opened the Good Book, and announced ‘The reading this morning is the Parable of the Turbulent Priest, as recorded in the Gospel according to St Kalaki, Chapter 23 Verses 12-36…’

          There was in the Land of Zed at that time a young priest by the name of Francis Bwabwata, who liked to speak out against sin and corruption. He had just been ordained as a priest and was keen to make a name for himself.

          So one day he knelt down and prayed to the Lord, saying ‘Oh Father in Heaven, where can I find some sin and corruption to expose? When people are in church they are always on their best behaviour, and I have failed to find a single case of theft or even fornication within the holy precinct of the church.’

          ‘Fear not,’ answered the Lord, ‘for the world is full of the sins of greed, covetousness and gluttony which lead to corruption. You must follow your congregation to find out where they go after church.’

          And so, the very next Sabbath, young Father Francis followed his flock out of the church and into the nearby Soccer Coliseum, where the local team, the Neanderthal Warriors, was playing the Chibuku Chola Boys.

          And what the innocent Francis saw was too awful to behold, so much so that he had to scurry back to his church, fall to his knees and pray to the Lord, saying ‘O Lord I have seen terrible things. The referee is paid to see the sins of one side rather than the other, while the local team has dug special muti under the goalposts, and the crowd participates by hurling beer bottles in a most partisan fashion. O Lord, I have come back here to pray for peace and goodwill to prevail on Earth.’

          Whereupon the Good Lord, who can get really annoyed sometimes, roared ‘It’s no good coming here to pray, you are supposed to go out there and do something about it! Show them all a red card!’

          And so, fortified with this backing from such a famous celestial mentor, the good priest Francis went forth courageously to the next match armed with a red card. And when the referee failed to award an obvious penalty, Francis raised his red card and shouted ‘In the name of the Lord, send him off’. Whereupon, a crowd of Neanderthal supporters ran onto the pitch, picked up the referee, and carried him off.

          After this initial success, Father Francis immediately formed a supporters club, which he called the No Nonsense Neanderthals, and kitted them out with red cards, red whistles and red shirts. And before long Father Francis became a national hero for his Christian Crusade against corruption in football, extending the his campaign off-field to the rigged election of club directors, backhanders in stadium building contracts, illegal selling of players, and so on.

          Even better for Francis’s reputation, he was soon arrested by the Police Farce on charges of having a red card without a licence, inciting a football crowd to shout at a referee, and wearing a red shirt without permission from Manchester United. As soon as the various laughable charges had been duly laughed out of court, he was carried shoulder high to the clubroom of the Neanderthal Warriors and made Chairman of the Club alongside a new board of directors.

          That evening Father Francis again knelt in prayer. ‘Oh Lord,’ he said, ‘I humbly thank you for this opportunity to lead football towards the Kingdom of Heaven, and to do my small part in your work to rid this Earth of sin and corruption.’

          And the Lord spoke unto him, saying ‘Just watch yourself, and make sure you don’t get pompous.’

          Father Francis was soon so busy reforming football that had no time for either church or prayer. But one evening he was so pleased with his own good work that he thought of asking the Lord whether he didn’t deserve promotion to an even higher calling. ‘O Lord,’ he prayed, ‘I trust you have been appreciating my good work, and I’m humbly asking whether you would back me for the presidency of the Land of Zed at the next election, so that I may extend your fight against sin and corruption.’

          ‘My son,’ replied the Lord solemnly, ‘I have seen that you have fired two directors who disagreed with you.’

          ‘I’m pleased you appreciate that,’ purred Father Francis. ‘Maintaining unity in the club is always my top priority.’

          ‘My son,’ intoned the Lord, ‘I see that you have never been available to hear complaints from the Supporters Club.’

          ‘It’s difficult to attend to everything,’ explained Father Francis, ‘I have had to spend so much time attending high-level FIFA meetings in Switzerland.’

          ‘My son,’ continued the Lord, ‘What are you doing about the continuing complaints of corruption in the Neanderthal Warriors Football Club?’

          ‘Unfortunately, O Lord, my disciplinary committee was sent on forced leave.’

          ‘My son, I have no choice except to give you a red card. You must take leave from your present job and devote yourself to forty years of prayer and fasting.’

          ‘But after that, O Lord, shall I ascend to the presidency?’

          ‘No my son,’ intoned the Lord solemnly. ‘You will ascend to Heaven.’

          ‘Thank you, O Lord,’ replied Father Francis. ‘And shall I sit at the right hand of God?’

          ‘No, my son,’ said the Lord firmly, ‘you shall sit at the left hand of Judas.’

A Wonderful CV

A Wonderful CV

            It was a warm afternoon in the village of Baluba. The men were dozing in the nsaka, and the women were away working in their fields. Suddenly children began to skip and dance and shout, pointing to a rising cloud of dust on the horizon. A vehicle was approaching!

          How could this be? There was no by-election. Perhaps some tourists were lost? They were still wondering when the Pajero drove into the village and stopped at the nsaka. Out stepped a man in a striped suit and tie, and started to shake hands with everybody. ‘Who are you?’ they asked. ‘Where have you come from? Are you a minister?’

          ‘I am much more important than that,’ he replied. ‘I am Clever Chiwa, the son you sent away to get educated. I have come back to visit my village.’

          ‘Ah ha,’ said one grizzly old mudala, ‘that was many moons ago, before the year of the locusts.’

          ‘Yes,’ said another, ‘So what have you brought back for us? Will you build a new church? A new road? A new school?’

          ‘Much more than that!’ said Chiwa, making a grand expansive gesture toward the horizon.

          And so, within the hour, after the indunas had been disentangled from their conjugal duties with their younger wives, and the Chief had been roused from a drunken slumber, the Indaba was ready to meet their long lost son.

          ‘My son,’ began the Chief, ‘It is thirty years we have been waiting for you to come back to this village, to reap our reward from our investment in your education. We are now assembled to hear what you have brought us.’

          Dramatically Chiwa pulled out his pocket a bundle of papers. ‘Here,’ he cried, ‘I have brought you my CV!’

          ‘Your See Vee!’ shouted the Chief, ‘What’s that! I wanted a Tee Vee!’

          ‘A CV is much better,’ explained Chiwa. ‘CV stands for Celebrated Victories! It lists all the marvelous things I have done in my life!’

          ‘Oh Dear,’ said the Chief sadly. ‘Things like failing to come home for your own mother’s funeral. Anyway, please read this See Vee to us because we have forgotten our spectacles.’

          ‘It would take too long to read it all,’ Chiwa apologized, ‘because my enormous accomplishments are so many. But suffice it to say that I have a doctorate in the anatomy of a cow…’

          ‘He could have stayed here to study the cow,’ muttered one of the indunas.

          ‘… and I am a Distinguished Professor in the Engineering of Stress Release Patterns in the Vertebrae of Bovine Species at the University of Donald Duck in Disneyland!’

          ‘Have you ever worked for a living?’ wondered the Chief.

          ‘Like all geniuses,’ said Chiwa, ‘My brilliant mind is in much demand. Currently I am the Royal Controller of Cattle in England, with special responsibilities to supply the Queen of England with prime-cut beef for all Royal Feasts!’

          Now at last the Chief’s interest began to perk up. ‘Then you could become my Royal Controller of Cattle?’

          ‘Indeed I could,’ agreed Chiwa. ‘Then at last I shall be able to use my incredible skills to develop my country. You must stop using your herd as a mere bank for capital, and instead begin cattle farming for a profit. And for that job, you have found the best man in the world. Congratulations!’

          And so that the villagers in Baluba began their three-year programme of building the sort of mansion which would be necessary to accommodate a man of such social distinction and global accomplishment. In the meantime Chiwa set up his house and office in Lusaka and began drawing up the contracts to establish a modern cattle ranching business in Baluba, involving the import of tractors, bailing machines, sileage plant, pasture grass, barbed wire, and so on. All to be supplied by Chiwa Agriculural Supplies Ltd, of Brixton, England.

          So every week the Chief sent a lorry load of 20 head of cattle to Lusaka, to raise the cash for the investment in this very profitable exercise. In fact Chiwa was so busy with drawing up the strategic plan, and acquiring inputs, that six months passed without him again finding time to return to Baluba.

          Then one day the children began dancing, and singing Bwana Chiwa, Bwana Chiwa, Bwana Chiwa. But out of the Landcruiser stepped a different gentleman in a black suit and black trilby hat. ‘I am Bee Jay Phiri’ he announced, ‘I left this village thirty years ago, but now I have returned to develop it!’ So, of course, this returnee was also taken to see the Chief and all his indunas.

          ‘I hope you’ve brought some money to invest.’ said the Chief.

          ‘Much better than money,’ laughed Phiri, ‘I have three degrees in aeronautical engineering from the University of Kermit in Muppetland!’

          ‘We already have a brilliant development manager,’ replied the Chief. ‘A man by the name of Clever Chiwa.’

          ‘I know Chiwa,’ said Phiri, ‘I met him once in Brixton. He was running a small butchery in Brick Lane.’

          ‘I’m told,’ said the Chief, ‘that he supplied beef to the Queen of England.’

          ‘That’s right,’ said Phiri. ‘That was the name of pub next door.’

          ‘Well,’ said the Chief grimly, ‘What’s your big idea?’

          ‘It’s a stroke of genius,’ admitted Phiri. ‘Just sell off all your cattle to buy an aeroplane, flatten the maize fields to make an airport, establish Baluba International Airlines, and we’ll all be rich!’

          ‘Isn’t it marvelous,’ said one of the indunas, ‘at last we have these young men returning home to help develop their own motherland.'

The Great Ukwa

The Great Ukwa

          The Master of Ceremonies moved to the front of the podium to announce ‘I now bring to you, all the way from Lusaka, the most marvellous magician the world has ever known, the Great Ukwa!’

          As he spoke, onto the podium glided the imperious magician, extravagantly dressed in the cream satin suit of a Chinese emperor, although on his head was the cap of a police constable, and around his shoulders the red satin cloak of a medieval king.

          Around the podium stood a ragged crowd of villagers, mostly men, for the women were away working in the fields. The scene was set in the middle of a dusty football pitch that boasted not a single blade of grass, in a bare landscape of miserable poverty.

          The Great Ukwa moved slowly in regal fashion to the front of the podium, fixed them with the terrible glare of his beady eyes, and scowled. The crowd trembled in anticipation. Suddenly and unexpectedly his right arm shot out and punched the air, and simultaneously there was a fearsome red flash and crack, and a puff of white smoke rose up from his clenched fist. ‘I am the King of this Land and All Beyond! I am the Mighty Ukwa, the Great Magician. I have all the powers!’

          ‘Hurray!’ shouted the crowd, as they punched their fists into the air, although no clouds of smoke rose up from their fists, because they did not have any power, let alone all the powers.

          ‘I have come here today to ask you, in this by-election, to give your vote to the candidate of the Punching Fist,’ shouted Ukwa, as he punched his fist into the air, causing another crack, flash, and puff of smoke.’

          ‘What is the name of our candidate?’ laughed the crowd.

          ‘His name is Nangu Umo! I am giving him to you as your member of parliament!’

          ‘Where is he?’ laughed the crowd.

          ‘I have made him invisible!’ declared the Great Ukwa, with another bang and puff of smoke. ‘Members of parliament are never seen in their constituencies! They just disappear in a puff of smoke. If I were to show him to you now, you would never see him again. Better that you never see him in the first place!’

          ‘Then who is going to help us?’ shouted the crowd.

          ‘I, the Great Ukwa the Magician will help you!’ he answered, punching another explosion into the air. ‘I have brought this magic all the way from China and I can do anything! I have all the powers! Am I not the one who ended the drought in Southern Province by transferring the Mosi-o-Tunya to Choma? Am I not the one who ended the poverty in Chirundu by transferring it to Lusaka? Was it not my mighty Punching Fist which knocked Itezhi-Tezhi District clean out Southern Province and right into Central Province, thereby bringing it nearer to Lusaka!’ He gave the air another explosive punch, as another puff of smoke rose in the air. ‘And all done with immediate effect!’

          ‘But what are you going to do for us?’ demanded the crowd.

          ‘I am Ukwa the Magician, and I have come here today to announce a big transformation. For fifty years the government of this country ignored Nsala. But today you are lucky, I have noticed it. I therefore hereby declare you to be a District, which means that you qualify for six clinics and a secondary school, which will appear within ninety seconds, as soon as I punch the air!’ So saying, the Great Magician punched the air. Flash! Bang! Boomagazang! A huge cloud of smoke enveloped the entire podium. But when it had finally cleared, the Mighty Magician was gone. And with him had gone the six clinics and a secondary school. All gone in a puff of smoke.

          ‘Here one minute and gone the next!’ laughed the crowd.

Now the Master of Ceremonies leapt back onto the podium. ‘I now give you our candidate for Nsala, the famous Mr Butuntushi Butungulushi of the By-Election Bonanza party…’

As the crowd cheered, onto the stage bounced a fat and jolly gentleman. ‘My friends,’ he began, ‘We brought the Great Magician Ukwa here, not just to entertain you, but also to remind you of how we have been treated in the past. How were we treated?’

‘Promised everything, got nothing!’ chanted the crowd.

‘Exactly!’ responded Butungulishi. ‘How many clinics were we promised?’

‘Six!’ answered the crowd.

‘And how may did we get!’

‘Nelyo chimo!’they cried.

‘When did we ever get anything?’

‘Only during the election,’ they answered.

‘Exactly!’ cried Butungulushi. ‘During the election we got brown envelopes, chitenge, bicycles, beer, fertilizer, relief food and empty promises. So what is the policy of the By-Election Bonanza party?’

‘More by-elections!’ shouted the enthusiastic crowd.

‘The voice of the people must be heard!’ shouted Butungulushi. ‘You shall have more by-elections! You just send me to parliament, and I will represent you by immediately selling myself to the ruling party for a hundred million. This money will be brought back here to you my people. Once I have sold myself on your behalf, this will trigger another rewarding by-election, when more gifts will be showered upon us. In this by-election, you can again elect somebody from the By-Election Bonanza party, who will of course again sell himself to the ruling party. As we continuously repeat this developmental cycle, we shall soon become the richest constituency in the country!’

‘Hurray!’ shouted the crowd. ‘Three cheers for democracy!’  

          

Political Cockroaches

Political Cockroaches

            ‘Your trouble is,’ said Kupela, ‘you live in an idealized world. You’re always judging government performance against how you think it ought to be. Then you get in a rage because everything is being done wrong.’

          ‘Huh!’ I snorted. ‘What a foolish thing to say. How else can things be judged, except in terms of what they ought to be?’

          ‘You should first try to understand what’s going on. All you can talk about is invisible human rights, rule of law gone missing, blah blah. You put on a wrong pair of spectacles, causing you see the things which nobody else can see, but failing to see what everybody else can see. Then you get in a rage because people can’t understand what you’re talking about, and you can’t understand what they’re talking about.’

          ‘What a way to talk to your father!’ I said sternly. ‘Me, the one that brought you up, and showed you how to understand the world! Now you claim I can’t see anything! Look around you! Do you not see what I see? Is this not the house in which you were brought up?’

          ‘Yes it is,’ said Kupela. ‘So let’s take this house as an example! Who lives here, in this house?’

          ‘You know the answer very well,’ I scoffed. ‘Since you left, there’s only me and your mother.’

          ‘A very limited point of view,’ she laughed. ‘This house is full of flies, mosquitoes, spiders, geckoes, carpet mites and thousands of cockroaches. But you, with your limited humanitarian gaze, can see only yourself and mummy.’

          ‘So is the world more understandable from the perspective of a cockroach? Can I understand the behaviour of the government by observing cockroaches?’

          ‘Well,’ said Koops, ‘since you’ve made the suggestion, let’s give it a try. After all, you are always trying to understand people in terms of rational behaviour, but the behaviour of politicians is instinctive rather than rational. More like a cockroach.

          ‘So go ahead!’ I chuckled. ‘Suppose that politicians are really huge cockroaches! What does that explain?’

          ‘It explains a new minister landing in parliament, elected by nobody but appointed by somebody, crawling in through the back door, and declaring he’s come to eat.’

          ‘I did criticize him,’ I said, ‘for saying that!’

          ‘You criticized him because you can’t understand him. You thought he’d come to render service for the benefit of the people. So you couldn’t understand what he was saying and you got yourself into a rage. If you had worn a better pair of spectacles you would have realized that he was really a huge brainless cockroach, and you would have understood his behaviour as entirely normal.’

          ‘Huh,’ I said. ‘Can your cockroach theory explain anything else?’

          ‘Ever stepped into the kitchen at night, turned on the light, and seen cockroaches crossing the floor? Parliament is just the same. Political cockroaches will always cross the floor if there’s more food on the other side.’

          ‘But they are also there to serve the people,’ I said. ‘That’s why we put them there.’

          ‘You’re wearing completely wrong spectacles,’ laughed Kupela. ‘Cockroaches want to get into government to capture the treasury, so they can sit and chew, and become monster political cockroaches, not like the half-starved little relatives who live in our houses.’

          ‘But at elections they promise us development, food, and an end to poverty.’

          ‘People think the big fat political cockroaches are talking to them, but actually they’re talking to the little domestic cockroaches who are everywhere, and listening very carefully.’

          ‘So they don’t have our interests at heart?’

          ‘We are just the useful idiots that keep the whole system working. The political economy of cockroachism works by each fat political cockroach using us to produce food and bring it into our houses, where most of it is stolen by his little relatives at the domestic level. Every fat parasitic cockroach has a billion little parasitic cockroaches feeding off him. But none of them do any work. We humans produce the food but the cockroaches eat most of it. We humans are allowed just enough food to keep us working so that we can feed the parasites.’

          ‘This theory can’t explain everything. I mean, why do we have schools and hospitals? These are provided for us humans by us humans, not for the cockroaches.’

          ‘Ha ha,’ laughed Kupela, ‘You’re really so innocent. Schools are there to brainwash us to believe that we humans are really in charge, that we live in a human-centred world, and to see these ghastly monster political cockroaches as fellow humans beings. And you, My poor Daddy, you really sucked it all in!’

          ‘Hmm, seems I was given the wrong spectacles. But what about hospitals?’

          ‘Hospitals are the main feeding centres for orphaned cockroaches. Have you never noticed that there a thousand times more cockroaches than patients in our hospitals? The walls are kept filthy to make them feel at home. But hospitals are also there to kill off the old and sick humans who are no longer fit to produce food for the cockroaches.’

          ‘So where do human rights come into this?’

          ‘Nowhere!’ she laughed. ‘This is a biological model of the political economy, and it works as a self-perpetuating and well-balanced symbiotic ecosystem. Any talk of human rights would upset the whole system, and reveal that humans are being used as slaves by parasitic cockroaches.’

          ‘Good gracious,’ I said. ‘So you really believe that this is the truth?’

          ‘Truth?’ she laughed. ‘Truth?’ she laughed again. ‘Poor old Daddy! You’ve just put on a worse pair of spectacles!’

           

           

             

Unconditional Love

Unconditional Love

          ‘And here endeth the First Lesson,’ intoned Father McWhisky, as he lifted the Holy Book to kiss it, then lowered it reverentially onto the lecturn. It was Easter Monday at the Cathedral of St Ignominious, and Father McWhisky had sobered up for the occasion.

          He now looked benignly around at the large congregation, and gestured grandly to the high and mighty who were gathered on the front pew. ‘It is with great pride and pleasure that we welcome our Great Leader and some of his ministers, who have graciously found time to be with us this morning.’

          A murmur of approval went round the church, as the Great Leader bowed his head to show his humility in receiving such great appreciation, and as Father Whisky now continued by calling the congregation to partake of holy communion.

          ‘Who is this damn whisky priest?’ whispered the Minister of Injustice into the ear of the Great Leader. ‘Is he not one of those who signed the church petition against you? Is he not the one giving sermons about leaders who don’t keep their promises?’

The Ceremonial Vice-President, not wanting to be left out of any intrigue, leant over to the Great Leader and hissed ‘He is the very one who has been talking about the high price of mealie-meal, and claims that the poor are getting poorer.’ At which point the Minister for Illegal Detentions and Deportations leant over and said ‘Just deliver him to me and I’ll fix him!’

          ‘Let us go and take our holy communion,’ the wise Great Leader replied to his whispering friends. ‘This is a religious occasion and we must follow our religious observances and obligations. Let us keep religion and politics separate. We left our politics at the cathedral door, and we shall only resume politics when we get back outside. With these wise words, his scheming followers fell quiet, and followed their Great Leader to the alter rail to receive their holy communion.

          And when all the supplicants were back in their pews, Father Whisky led the congregation in a moving prayer for the health of their Great Leader, asking that he might bring the nation to further peace, unity and prosperity. ‘And now,’ said Father Whisky, ‘it is usually my duty to deliver a sermon at this stage in the service. But since we have our Great Leader in our midst, I have asked him to say a few words about the meaning of Easter.

          Slowly and majestically the Great Leader glided towards the lectern, rested his hands on each side of it, and fixing the congregation with his two beady eyes. ‘Christ died for us,’ he began. ‘He died because he loved us, and he loves us still. And it is written, in the Gospel According to Mark, Chapter 12 Verse 31, that Jesus commanded us to Love thy neighbour as thyself.

          ‘Even Father McWhisky here is my neighbour,’ continued the Great Leader, as he glared aggressively at the the congregation, ‘and I must love him as I love myself. Even though he has spoken against me, I must love him. Even though he has been claiming that I have been misusing my authority, I must love him. We must do away with quarrelling and division and instead live together in brotherly love. Some people come to whisper in my ear, saying that I must deal with this troublesome Whisky priest because he opposes me. But I say no. With love comes forgiveness and reconciliation. Only with love can we all work together for all humanity. So long as I am in charge, I want to see unconditional love, because this is a Christian country. May God bless you all!’

          Now the Great Leader stepped serenely down from the lectern, and began walking at a stately and solemn pace down the central aisle, as his scheming ministers scurried into line behind. ‘Our Great Leader has another engagement,’ announced Father Whisky. ‘Please all stand in honour of our Great Leader, in thanks for his inspiring Easter message, and in prayer that our Good Lord will bless us with many more years of his wise leadership.’

          Now, as the crooked back of the last crooked minister finally disappeared through the huge mukwa doors, Father Whisky stood with arms raised to Heaven, saying ‘Oh Father we thank you for such leadership, we thank you for this message, we thank you for this day, we thank you for the night, we thank you even for the flies and mosquitoes, we thank you for…’

          But he was interrupted in his potentially interminable prayer by the bursting open of the side door, through which crashed a cohort of policemen in riot gear with batons raised. Four of them grabbed Father Whisky and dragged him outside, while the inspector in charge ran to the pulpit and shouted ‘Father Whiskey is under arrest for holding a meeting without a police permit, for distributing alcohol without a liquor licence, and for falsely and corruptly claiming that he can arrange favours from God in return for money given to his church! In order to facilitate our security check, all party members should move to this side of the church, while opponents, insurgents, dissidents, critics and malcontents should move to the other side!’

          ‘My God!’ said one parishioner to another. ‘What happened to unconditional love?’

          ‘There was another sudden policy change,’ laughed his friend.

          ‘I thought the one party state was supposed to be dead!’ said somebody else.

          ‘Today,’ replied his friend drily, ‘is the day of the resurrection.’